


There's a Name For It

by Renne



Category: Invaders, Marvel 616
Genre: M/M, Unrequited Love, accidental feelings, requited sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 05:41:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/462824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky may be playing Namor now, or it may be that Namor is willing to be played ~ In which Bucky goes to Namor for what he needs because he could never go to Steve for what he wants. Invaders!Era.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There's a Name For It

Namor sees the way the boy looks at the soldier; with respect, with admiration, with something more. The boy--the pet, the mascot--looks at the soldier, the symbol, Steve Rogers, with something sharp in his eyes. Steve doesn't notice, of course. Men like him never could, and Namor sees that knowledge in the boy's eyes too.  
  
But Namor will notice. The Atlantean prince knows those looks. The look of someone swayed by something more than need, something crueller than beauty. The soft surface women look at Steve that way, as they look at Namor too. (It's different for him, though. He's alien to their gaze with his pointed ears and anklewings, the not-quite-human cast to his features. But he knows he could have any he wanted.)  
  
And the pathetic boy who follows Steve like a loyal puppy has hunger in his gaze when he doesn't think anyone else sees.  
  
Namor sees.  
  
He pities this boy, this Bucky Barnes, who can never have this thing that he wants, in this lifetime or the next.  
  
He pities him and he doesn't know why, because he shouldn't care what a stupid boy wants and can't have. It is a war and they all know there's no room in war for anything but death and victory. Namor himself dreams of the day he pulls Hitler below the water and opens his throat as sharks tear at dying flesh.  
  
Yet Namor respects Bucky's willingness to dirty his hands the way Steve will not. That Bucky, while only a boy, is yet man enough to look at Captain America in a way that is less than heroic. Strangely, Namor finds he respects that too.  
  
Namor kicks idly towards the surface, annoyed at how his lazy evening swim in the warm waters of the Adriatic has turned into a muse on the pathetic, powerless mascot the American army has forced them to take from mission to mission.   
  
And of course, sitting on the pebbled beach is Bucky himself; a small, lonely figure hunched in his dress uniform, elbows on his knees except when he moves to toss a pebble into the waves.  
  
The boy is strangely drawn to the water, to the sea, like there's a longing in his bones for the cold dark under the waves. Namor has seen similar in his own people, the longing for land and he knows that it can never end well. He'd warn Steve if he thought it would be taken at face value and not as another imagined slight against the boy. Namor gets along so well with Steve when it's about anything other than Bucky.  
  
Either way, time will out whether Namor's suspicions about Bucky and his destiny are valid.  
  
Another pebble plops into the water, and while Namor is reasonably certain Bucky can't see him there beneath the surface, he scowls because the splashes undeniably seem to be zeroing on him.  
  
He kicks in closer and Bucky isn't surprised to see him.  
  
"Oh," Bucky says flatly. "It's you. Thought it was just a fish." His fingers skate over the pebbles and he finds another. This time Namor knows for sure that the trajectory is no accident, as with a casual flick of the wrist the rock sails towards him.  
  
He scowls and brushes it away. "Shouldn't you be elsewhere, Barnes?" he asks, flicking his fingers dismissively. He remembers Bucky and the other boy, the powered one, Toro, prattling about drink and girls. There had been mention of a birthday; whose, Namor couldn't say because he hadn't cared enough to listen.  
  
Bucky grunts. "Not in the mood," he says, like Namor cares. The question had been rhetorical, but given the answer, Namor knows the reason behind Bucky's sulk. He's closeted back at the local headquarters with command, plotting out their next mission and Bucky is left pining on a beach unwilling even to drink himself into a surface girl's arms.  
  
How pathetic.  
  
Namor stands and strides out of the ocean, slicking the water from his hair. He has better things to do than encourage a boy's emotional drivel. But Bucky stands when he does, and though not looking for it, Namor doesn't miss the way Bucky looks at him as the last golden light of the day gleams off the water sheeting down his body. Doesn't miss the flicker in his eyes.  
  
This could be an interesting diversion, Namor thinks, and while he's more than used to covetous looks, this was not something he'd expected. And not something he'd seen before in almost a year of fighting at Captain America and Bucky's side.  
  
Namor doesn't miss the similarity between the flicker in Bucky's eyes now and the way he looks at Steve when he thinks no one is watching. It's this similarity that makes the differences all the more stark. There's none of the affectionate warmth but all of the heat; more even, as anything tender is replaced by hunger so sharp, so aggressive, Namor feels himself respond involuntarily.  
  
So, it seems Bucky has drunk himself into something else.  
  
It's nothing Namor can't deal with. His blood runs hot on such desire, after all.  
  
He turns fully, raises his chin with all the imperiousness of his royal blood. Either this pathetic boy will back down or--  
  
Ah yes, of course.  
  
Bucky steps up to him, wetting his lips. "Could be I'm in the mood for somethin' different," he says challengingly.  
  
"You're what, sixteen? What makes you think Namor would want a boy?" Namor responds scornfully. He can hear the way Bucky breathes, harsh and deep. A step closer and he's sure he'd hear the way the boy's heart thumps in his chest too.  
  
"It's my  _birthday_." The words are sharp, but the anger is directed at that absent someone. Bucky steps in closer, chin up and belligerent and Namor thinks that maybe he's not such a boy if he would openly challenge the Prince of Atlantis this way.  
  
Namor studies Bucky's face. He's never really looked at him before-- _really_  looked at him, rather than letting his gaze skate over dismissively--and he sees now (beyond the bruised eyes, the razor-line of jaw dusted with stubble) that he is less the useless boy Namor dismissed at first sight and more a man who's felt a dying heart beat through the handle of a knife.  
  
In his eyes is a man's lust.  
  
"Namor is no man's second best," Namor says shortly. "Not even second to one such as the Captain."  
  
"The... Captain?" And Bucky's eyes widen with alarm and he pulls back. Oh, he thinks his little secret is that well hidden? Namor nearly laughs.  
  
"You know who I mean, Barnes. I am not blind, though he may be."  
  
Bucky's mouth thins and Namor is sure he's about to stage a retreat, but then his gaze is caught by a droplet of water Namor feels trickle down his neck, over the curve of his collarbone and down his chest. Namor sees the movement of Bucky's throat as he swallows, the involuntary spasm of his hand into a fist.  
  
"I coulda stayed in town," Bucky says suddenly, voice rough. "But I didn't, I came here."  
  
"Where you knew I would be."  
  
"I--maybe. Maybe it was just a coincidence--"  
  
Namor smiles. "You came to the very beach I came to. Of all the stretches along here--and there are so very many--you came here."  
  
"Maybe I did." Bucky steps closer again, tilting his face up, only a few hand spans now separating them. "Maybe you're not second best. Maybe  _he's_ not the only one I look at, only you just never saw 'cause you weren't looking."  
  
Namor is not gentle as he reaches for the boy, fingers digging into Bucky's arms as he hauls him close. Bucky grunts, fingers scrabbling on Namor's wet skin. But he doesn't just let himself be manhandled, doesn't just let Namor take of him. Bucky kisses back (and tastes like that foul yeast brew), scrapes his fingers down Namor's chest and stomach, hooking them over the gold band at his waist.  
  
Namor shoves Bucky back a couple of steps, then a couple of steps more, before kicking his feet out from under him. Bucky falls heavily, but not on pebbles, on grass, and Namor kneels over him. "I'm not the one you want," Namor says. "I will not be the one you want. But I'll give you want you need, what you ask for."  
  
Bucky tries to squirm out from under him, but Namor has no compunctions about using his strength to hold him in place. He sees the look in Bucky's eyes; just as he'd recoiled when Namor first mentioned Steve, he's pulled back again, scared at how easily he's been read. "Oh stop it," Namor says, irritated. "I'll not hurt you."  
  
It seems to be enough and Bucky subsides, warm again as his hands find Namor's skin. Bucky is no innocent to pleasures of the flesh, it seems, as he slides his hands under Namor's waistband again, curved over his buttocks, and pushes his hips up so Namor can feel his arousal.  
  
It's gratifying in a way Namor's not sure he's comfortable with, to know this boy who dislikes him so much wants him anyway. Gratification could imply he cares and if there's something he doesn't do it's 'care'. He fits his hand around Bucky's throat, tipping his chin back as he leans forward and says in Bucky's ear, "Tell me. What would you have him do to you, if he were here?"  
  
Bucky inhales sharply and it seems a theme as he struggles to break free, his fingers slipping against the slick metal of Namor's wrist cuff. "Don't--" he says, because no, Bucky wouldn't want the spectre of Steve Rogers lingering here. Not now. Not like this.  
  
It's futile for Bucky to struggle and Namor's hand tightens fractionally to remind him. "I do not judge you, Barnes," he says softly, "he is more than worthy. But when you look at him with such filth in your heart... you've thought about it, many a night as you touched yourself in the dark, imagining what he'd do if you could have him like this." Bucky stills underneath him and Namor can feel the pound of his pulse under his hand. Bucky's soft moan is pleasing. "What would you have of him?"  
  
The boy's eyes open, reflecting the darkening sky and the emerging stars, his lips parted. He is beautiful like this, Namor thinks grudgingly, and Namor knows beauty.  
  
Bucky breathes out.  
  
"Everything," he says.  
  
The last thing Namor expects to feel is jealousy. He could take this boy to Atlantis, to his bed, and take him to pieces. He could give Bucky everything he thought he'd wanted from Steve and more; leave him broken in a prince's bed, and begging, leave him shaking and shuddering, desperate for more. He would show Bucky true pleasure beyond the mere amount they will have here, on the grass above a pebbled beach, the sound of waves washing over them. Pleasure beyond anything he's known.  
  
Bucky's eyes are focused now; on him, on his face. There's a sly curl to his lips and Namor suddenly understands why this boy who is almost a man is so dangerous. Not because he's a trained killer as they all are in their own way, but because his eyes are open. He understands and he manipulates, and if this is what he came to the beach for, he has succeeded.  
  
He may be playing Namor now, or it may be that Namor is willing to be played.  
  
"Of course you would," Namor says. "And he'll never give it to you. But you know that, don't you, that you'll never have what you want from him. I, though... I can give you what you ask for. And all you have to do is ask."  
  
"I..." Bucky wets his lips.  
  
"Ask."  
  
Bucky holds Namor's gaze with his and says, simply, "I want you inside me."  
  
Oh, he is far from innocent. His response is no question Namor could say no to, and then leave the boy behind on the beach to learn a hard lesson. No, it's a statement of fact. And Bucky isn't finished. "I wanna know what you feel like inside me. I have this too--" He fumbles in his pocket then pushes a little jar of salve into Namor's hand.  
  
Namor recognises it immediately, though he'd never have thought he'd paid that much attention to the frittering of the two youngest Invaders. It's a salve a doctor had given Toro for a condition with his hands, a salve Bucky carried because of the other boy's inflammability. While it could be coincidental that Bucky is still carrying the salve, Namor finds himself intrigued by the idea that Bucky might have come to the beach so well prepared.  
  
He laughs. "And what will you tell little Toro when he asks where his medicine has gone?" he asks as he flicks open the buttons on Bucky's dress shirt. Bucky's naked beneath, no undershirt needed in this balmy weather, and his skin is hot under Namor's palm. "That you were bare and open under Namor on a foreign beach, this salve used to ease my way into your body?"  
  
Bucky growls softly, a noise with a hint of threat that sends a prickle of anticipation up Namor's spine. "What I tell him is none of your goddamn business. C'mon, hurry it up," Bucky says as Namor slowly runs his hand over the skin he's bared.  
  
"I will not be rushed." When Namor touches Bucky's face he can see the confusion in Bucky's eyes at the tenderness.  
  
He knows Bucky expects him to take his pleasure and leave, and if that's what he's expecting out of this encounter then he will be sadly mistaken. Namor is a generous lover; they will both have their pleasure and Namor intends it to be memorable.  
  
And so Namor takes his time as he strips Bucky out of his clothes, is careful as he prepares and then pushes into his body, gentling him with hands and voice and mouth. Namor's name is a curse on Bucky's lips, and Namor laughs as Bucky clings to his shoulders, as he pants and whines in protest as Namor moves inside him.  
  
"Do you want me to stop?"  
  
"No, just need a minute--"  
  
Bucky grips with his legs for emphasis and Namor laughs. "Maybe we should have done this sooner," he says, pressing his mouth against the underside of Bucky's jaw, languidly rocking into him. Bucky groans.  
  
"But you--hated me. Thought I--thought I was useless."  
  
"Who says I still don't hate you?" Sliding his hands along Bucky's arms to his wrists, Namor pins them to the ground above Bucky's head. He leans in and kisses him, not rough like the first time, but deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against Bucky's echoing the roll of his hips.  
  
They establish a rhythm, broken only when Bucky struggles to free his wrists. Namor releases them, murmuring, "So you want to touch?" against Bucky's mouth.  
  
"Yeah..." And touch Bucky does. "Jesus," he mutters as he slides his hands over Namor's shoulders and down his back and over his buttocks (squeezing as Namor thrusts into him), mapping every inch of skin he can reach. Namor knows his physique is flawless, but it's always nice to know others quite rightly appreciate it too. Then Bucky slides his hands back up, and when his fingers find the faint ridges behind Namor's ears, the delicate skin closed protectively against the air, Namor freezes.  
  
The skin is sensitive to the touch and as Bucky's fingers linger, stroking the line of each ridge gently, Namor twitches, breathing shakily. He--he didn't expect that at all. "You like that," Bucky says, surprised. "What is it--?"  
  
"I breath underwater," Namor says, voice roughened by the intensity of his arousal. "And I don't breathe with my lungs."  
  
"Oh."  
  
It's entirely too much and Namor pushes Bucky's hands away as Bucky gives him a sly, thoughtful look. It's easy enough to wipe it from his face though, as Namor rakes his fingers down Bucky's side and slides his hand up Bucky's leg to the back of his knee, pushing gently. It opens Bucky up even more under him, changing the angle just enough so that when Namor pushes into him, this time deeper than before, Bucky lets out a strangled gasp, fingers gripping Namor's shoulders hard.  
  
"You like that," Namor echoes and Bucky groans when he moves again. Namor leans in to taste each of the noises of pleasure Bucky makes as he thrusts into him, the wordless moans soft but increasing in desperation until Bucky jerks and spills between them.  
  
"Good," Namor says raggedly, " _good_ ," and even as he moves he can feel the rise of his own pleasure until it crashes over him like a wave. Bucky clings to him, kisses him messily. For a moment Namor feels like he's drowning and then he can breathe again, the air syrup-thick in his lungs. For a long moment, they lay tangled together, as breath and heartbeats slow, and Namor closes his eyes as Bucky idly trails his fingers up and down his back.   
  
Eventually he peels himself off Bucky, who clings for a moment before releasing him suddenly, as if he's only just realised who he's holding on to. "What?" he says in a defensive tone as Namor looks at him, amused.   
  
"You're not nearly as mouthy as I would have suspected," he says reaching out to touch Bucky's mouth. Bucky scowls and pushes his hand away as he sits up, brushing grass from his shoulders before casting about for his trousers. "Here." Namor passes them to him. "And here." He presses the salve jar into Bucky's hand. "Best make sure you get that back to Toro."  
  
Bucky huffs softly, looks at it for a moment before tucking it into the pocket of his trousers. He fishes a handkerchief out of another and swipes it across his sticky belly. He's blushing a little when he offers it to Namor for the same.  
  
Namor shakes his head. He'll wash the sweat and sex from his skin in the ocean before he returns to the village. "Barnes--"  
  
"Bucky."  
  
"Barn--"  
  
" _Bucky_."  
  
"Tch.  _James._ "  
  
Sometimes, Namor has learned, it's worth the surrender and this, truly, is a trifle. But it's a trifle that pleases Bucky none the less, trying to hide his satisfied smile as he wriggles back into his trousers. This isn't at all how Namor would have predicted events going once they'd taken their pleasure, had he ever thought about this before. He would have thought Bucky likely to run, ashamed and disgusted like so many air breathers by a perfectly natural passion.   
  
Instead Bucky does up his trousers and rummages around in his jacket for a crumpled pack of cigarettes, then sprawls out on the grass next to Namor. Bucky's continued presence doesn't put a dampener on Namor's post-coital mood; he doesn't fill the air with chatter, just reclines and smokes his cigarette and Namor ignores the way the side of Bucky's foot nudges against his leg, just above his anklewing.  
  
"Well, this was fun," Bucky says eventually, stubbing out his cigarette butt on the grass and shrugging back into his shirt. Then he stands, pushing his feet into his unlaced boots. "Better get back. Toro said he got something for my birthday, but we'd have to wait 'til later." He shrugs and grins. "Guess this birthday ain't been all bad, after all." He gives Namor an overt, lingering look and it's everything Namor can do not to stretch and preen as Bucky's gaze runs the length of his bare body. He does enjoy being appreciated, but there's no need to encourage Bucky further.  
  
Instead Namor flicks his fingers dismissively. "Go. Wouldn't want to keep your little friend waiting."  
  
Bucky goes.  
  
  
  
Namor never sleeps well on land when he's just returned from the sea, just as he never sleeps well under the sea when he's spent too long on land. The future sea king, a child of two worlds and truly comfortable in neither. It would be ironic, were it anyone else.  
  
The squeak of the door goes unnoticed in the creak of the bed as he again shifts restlessly. Then the side of the bed dips and his hand shoots out, grabbing the interloper by the wrist. "Barnes," he says. "James." The scent of alcohol is stronger, no longer the yeast of beer but the sharp bite of malt whiskey.  
  
"How'd you guess--"  
  
Namor flicks back the blanket. He's naked underneath. "You may share this bed with me."  
  
"I didn't come here to  _sleep_."  
  
Bucky can't see his sharp smile in the dark; this boy who is a man who is a boy who liquors himself up and comes here because he thinks he can just take what he wants from Namor, when he can't have what he needs from Steve.  
  
"Namor needs his rest." He rolls over so his back is to the boy. "Go or stay, I care not."  
  
The mattress shifts as Bucky stands, there comes the rustle of fabric against skin, and then the mattress again sinks and Namor's spine prickles with gooseflesh when Bucky slides up against his back, hands clumsy on his skin. "I've gotta be gone at dawn," Bucky says irritably. "I need to be back in my own bed."  
  
"Then I will have you before dawn. For now we sleep."  
  
(Bucky is a warm weight against his back. It's not unpleasant.)  
  
It's not the last time Bucky comes to him. They don't talk about it but he comes again and again; not every night or day, because this is a war and they're on a moving front, but often enough and every time they have a night of rest, a break in a town where the townsfolk are more than happy to give up their beds to Captain America and his team of Invaders, slipping into Namor's bed after dark and always leaving before dawn.  
  
He's warm and he's burning up, he's eager and desperate and sometimes harsh and rough with his greedy hands and mouth, sometimes drunk, sometimes slow and lethargic. Once he comes to where Namor is keeping watch in the middle of the night, shaking and lost, dried blood still caked under his fingernails. As Namor folds Bucky against him in the v of his thighs, under the blanket that keeps the snow off, as he slides his hand under the waistband of Bucky's trousers and Bucky muffles his soft whimpers desperately with his hands, Namor wonders how it came to this.  
  
This is more than mere bedsport, more than just games.  
  
Namor is not the one who should be comforting Bucky against his terrors in the dark and the blood on his hands. He shouldn't be the one, he doesn't  _want_  to be the one and yet he here is.  
  
It bothers him.  
  
  
  
It's just shy of a month since the evening on the beach when Steve finds out.  
  
"Can I come with you?" Steve asks as Namor excuses himself for a much needed dip in the sea. He'd intended to fly, but instead asked for walking directions--or attempted to, at least, from villagers too dumbstruck by his royal presence to string together a sentence. It had been Bucky who'd intervened with a sly smile (Bucky, whom the directions were truly for) and that--as Namor suspects much later--was the opening Steve needed to invite himself along.  
  
"I need to talk with you and I'd rather the privacy." Steve glances back to where Toro and Jim are going through the supply crates, heads close together as they check the inventory. Bucky's since disappeared into the house where they've been billeted. "Please."  
  
Namor raises a brow but shrugs and turns down the path the villager had directed him to. "As you wish."  
  
Steve doesn't say anything at all on the walk up to the point. As the villager had mentioned, there was a lighthouse that couldn't be missed. They stop by the edge, where the cliff has been cut away by the sea below and still Steve says nothing. Namor cuts a sideways glance at him, mystified by the clear discomfort on Steve's face. "So," he prods, when it's clear Steve isn't going to speak. "You wanted to talk."  
  
"Um," Steve says. He scratches at his head. "I don't know how to say this. How to start. I mean, I thought about it, I tried to figure out what to say and--"  
  
"Just say it," Namor suggests. It's almost embarrassing watching his friend struggle to find the right words.  
  
Steve sighs. "I--okay, I just... I saw the two of you. You and Buck. The other night." He's blushing brightly, and that's indication enough to Namor of what he might have seen.  
  
"Ah."  
  
"I asked Bucky about it and he--he told me it was nothing--"  
  
"It is nothing."  
  
"Nothing? What I saw didn't look like nothing. You were--"  
  
"I'm aware of what we were doing and I assure you, Steven,  _it is nothing_."  
  
Namor realises then that under the discomfort and the facade of politeness, Steve's angry with him for this. It's the same irrational anger Namor sees in Steve when Bucky's endangered himself, when he's put himself at the mercy of their enemies.  
  
"Nothing or not, he's young, Namor, he is too young for your--for your... for whatever this is."  
  
"Too young? At sixteen--"  
  
"He's  _seventeen_ ," Steve snaps, like Namor's touched a nerve. He is finds it interesting how protective Steve is of his boy and wonders if Steve knows anything about Bucky at all as he acts Namor debauched a virgin.  
  
Namor can attest: Bucky Barnes was no virgin.   
  
"Well, he did say something about a birthday--"  
  
"He's only a boy!"  
  
And that's how Namor finds himself in the awkward position of defending Bucky to his own Captain. While he does doesn't believe Bucky yet truly a man either, he's no longer a boy the way Steve thinks he is, not even the way Namor used to believe he was. Namor will admit to himself, at least, when he's wronged someone.  
  
"You took him to war, Steven. He may have trained for this his whole life, but you were the one who took him to war. Your mascot, your pet. And yet he is the one you let commit the deeds you would not. You call him a boy but at sixteen, had you cut a man's throat? Strangled someone with your own hands? Had you slipped a knife up under a man's ribcage and searched for his heart while he bled out all over-- _urk!_ "  
  
He hits the ground harder than expected, Steve's hand tight around his throat. Of course, he'd forgotten that it didn't do to delve too deeply into the truth of Bucky's role in Europe. Eventually, he knows, Steve will come to terms with what his mascot for the American youth does here, and everything he's been trained to do. Eventually, he knows, Steve will no longer use terms that dance around the truth: evade, infiltrate, subdue. Eventually Steve will learn that he does his boy no favours by not acknowledging that he's a killer with the heart of a bully, the truth that Bucky hides from Steve like a sick, sad secret.  
  
Namor pities them both, but even like this with Steve's hand around his throat, looking down at him with such fury, he can't help the soft taunt, "Did he tell you I had him like this?"  
  
It's no big surprise when Steve hits him. The man has his honour after all, and said honour extends to Bucky whether deserved or not. Namor doesn't believe there is truly anyone else in this world Steve would defend so emphatically.  
  
While Namor is not invulnerable, his bruises and abrasions heal quickly enough. Even on top of the injuries sustained against the Red Skull's forces this day--Namor as decoy, holding the bridge against Master Man as his fellow Invaders stormed the castle to destroy Hydra weapons--Namor knows another bruise will make little difference and Bucky won't need to know the lengths his precious Captain would take to defend his non-existent honour.  
  
"Did he tell you--" He waits patiently until the ringing in his ears eases, wondering when--if--Steve will realise he's not going to fight back. Not for this. Not like this. Namor will be the better man. Except--  
  
Steve is breathing heavily as he leans in. Namor's never seen him so angry. "You want to talk some more?"  
  
Namor can't help himself. "Did he t--"  
  
When he's left stunned a moment this time, that's the final straw. He can no longer allow Steve the liberty of assault, better man or not. His hand shoots out and even with the injuries he's carrying, he's strong enough to stop the next blow, to force Steve back.  
  
"Namor was willing to allow you time to understand," he snarls, "but you push him too far!" It's satisfying to strike back--just the once--and he sends Steve reeling.  
  
"I should kill you for touching him," Steve snaps, clutching at his jaw.  
  
Even though it's a clear threat against his royal person that should not go unpunished, Namor stays his hand because it's not worth it. Bucky is not worth it and Namor shakes his head, bitterly saddened by this side of the man he respected so much. The fear, the violent rejection. While Steve would never be as liberal as one raised in Atlantis, Namor had expected a greater tolerance for those who were different, given the makeup of his team and Steve's own origin.  
  
He's surprised to feel genuine relief that Bucky never told Steve of his true feelings. That Bucky had come to him instead, for even without emotions this thing between them was better than what the behaviour Steve was displaying here could have ever afforded the boy. No, Namor knows now he is glad that Bucky will never see this, that he would never know the misery of this rejection from his precious Captain.  
  
"I am disappointed in you, Steven," he says in his most regal tone. If it's possible for someone to look down their nose at someone while flat on their back, Namor will do it. "Your boy would have pleasure from both sexes and you act like him taking his pleasure from a man is barbaric and evil. In the face of all we fight and all we stand for, this is what you turn against?"  
  
"No! I don't--it's not--" Steve stops, swiping his hand over his face. He suddenly looks horrified, as if he's just realised what Namor is saying. "I'm  _not_ ," he says, aghast. "Oh god, Namor, it's not that you're both men, it's..."  
  
"It's what? That it's me? A prince of the blood? Atlantean royalty? Is that what you are saying, Captain?  _Am I not good enough?"_  
  
"I--no, I just--I don't know, I'm not... it's not you and it's not that he wants to spend time with other men. If that's what he wants to do then I can--I'll accept that. It's just... this isn't what I wanted for him."  
  
Steve scrubs his hand over his face. "They told me to take this boy with me to war, that he'd be even more of a symbol to those back home than I was. The all-American teenager at the side of Captain America, fighting the might of the Nazi empire. Except he's not that, he's--what kind of a man deliberately sends a boy into a trap to spring it or to infiltrate enemy lines? I know he's not innocent, but this--you--coming across the two of you and the way you've corrupted the last of--"  
  
"Me?" Whether Steve is truthful in his acceptance of the boy's likes or not, Namor isn't sure, but he knows for certain that he doesn't like the way Steve speaks of him with Bucky. Nothing they've done has been less than mutual. Namor is not a monster. And after all, "I didn't seek him out," he says shortly, "no matter what you believe. He was the one who came to me the first time--"  
  
"I'm sure it was just a coincidence."  
  
"Did he tell you he came then to my bed? And other nights since? That he seeks me out when we are alone?"  
  
Steve recoils like he's been struck and while Namor would be more than happy to oblige again, the situation doesn't call for it. He understands Steve is confused and angry; he understands Steve will feel the guilt of a good man gone astray for the way he's treated Namor soon enough.  
  
"Your boy--James--he needs and he wants, and there are things he wants that he cannot have and things he needs that he can." Namor sits up, wipes at the blood trickling from his nose. There are few men in the world above or below the waves that Namor would permit to get away with this desecration. "I give him one of those things. Some of the things," he corrects himself, "that make up his needs and wants."  
  
Steve looks confused. "I don't understand."  
  
"Do  _you_  want him? Is this why you're so upset he came to me?"  
  
"No, I don't want--I-- _no_ , it's not that--"  
  
Namor's lip curls derisively. "You surface dwellers," he says. "You never do know what you want. What you do want you can't have, and you take what you don't want just because you can."  
  
It's clear his tone has stung Steve, because he snaps, "Is that what happened with Bucky? He took from you because he could?"  
  
Namor laughs. He's not wise enough yet to understand when to pick his fights and when to cut his losses, and he says, "Oh no, Steven, you have it so very wrong.  _I_  was the one who took  _him_ \--"  
  
The earlier assault has nothing on the punch Steve delivers now, and Namor comes up dazed and spitting blood, infuriated. "It's only because I respect you and know you lash out again something you don't understand that I've allowed you to lay a hand on my royal person. Strike me again and you will feel the full weight of Namor's wrath."  
  
Steve stares at him, wide-eyed, like he's finally shocked by his own behaviour. Namor makes a noise of disgust and turns, taking a few swift steps and as he dives into the familiar salt-comfort of the sea he hears Steve shout his name.  
  
Let him, Namor thinks savagely,  _let him_.  
  
Let him think he's ruined the pact between the Invaders. Let him explain why Namor is gone. (Oh, he won't go, not over this, not over something he pulled out of Steve to appease the part of him that resented the super soldier his self-control and respect. But it is nice to think of Steve fretting that he might have destroyed the alliance with Atlantis over a stupid boy.)  
  
As the water closes over his head, Namor shuts his eyes and lets the current take him.  
  
  
  
It's hours later when he returns to the village, needing the flight home as much as he'd needed seawater on his skin. As he hovers Namor can see Steve sitting outside the house they've been given for their respite, shoulders slumped. Poor super soldier wallowing in regret. How long would he wallow, Namor wonders, if he wasn't given the absolution he was craving?  
  
Namor lands softly on the path and Steve rockets to his feet. "Namor, I--"  
  
Namor draws every ounce of his dignity up around him. He's a prince of the realm, he will be the King of Atlantis, he will be more than this man could ever dream to be.  
  
"I'm sorry," Steve says in a penitent voice as Namor brushes past him.  
  
Namor pauses, glances back. "It's nothing," he says shortly. He can be magnanimous. "I have put it from my mind." He waves a hand languidly in dismissal. "I will see you in the morning."  
  
Steve steps forward, reaching out and opening his mouth like he wants to say something, but Namor turns away and heads into the house that had been given over to the Invaders for their use. Bucky and Toro sit on the floor in the front room playing cards when Namor enters and he feels Bucky's sharp gaze on him as he heads from the door to the stairs.   
  
Bucky will come to him later, he's sure of it.   
  
He's right.  
  
Namor is not long to bed when he hears the squeak of the doorknob. Seconds later the side of the bed dips. It's reminiscent of that first night, except this time Bucky doesn't reek of whiskey and Namor is sure he hasn't come for sex.  
  
Mostly sure.  
  
Somewhat sure.  
  
To be honest, he can never quite tell; not since he was ambushed while on watch too early one morning, the boy ostensibly keeping him company because he couldn't sleep, company somehow ending with Bucky's mouth bringing Namor to completion as he strained to keep aware of his surroundings.  
  
"Go away," he mutters. "I don't want to deal with you tonight."  
  
"Shut up, Namor," he hears Bucky say, feels the shift of the blankets and then he's sliding in under them, inching forward blinding in the dark with a hand extended and his touch is soft as his fingers brush Namor's chest. Bucky still wears his undershorts and t-shirt, the old cotton soft against Namor's skin as he nudges his knee between Namor's legs (Namor lets him), slides an arm around his waist (Namor lets him) and shuffles in until they're pressed together and he can tuck his face in against Namor's throat (Namor lets him do that too).  
  
He'd been surprised when he first found out the boy was a cuddler, but it wasn't unpleasant so Namor didn't make any effort to discourage it. Now he suspects maybe he should have. This was not what he needed right now.  
  
Eventually Bucky sighs, his breath warm over Namor's collarbone. "How're you feeling?" he asks, pulling back a little.  
  
"I'm recovering," Namor says carefully, "from the fight with Master Man. As I always do. It's nothing of concern."  
  
Bucky makes a soft, almost sad noise, then says, "I mean... I was at the lighthouse. Before."  
  
Oh.  
  
"That was merely a robust discussion, James. Nothing to concern yourself over."  
  
"He knows. About us."  
  
"He does."  
  
"I don't him it didn't mean anything--"  
  
"It's not that. He still thinks you a child--"  
  
" _You_  thought I was a child."  
  
"Yes, and you've proven me wrong since then. Repeatedly." That at least draws a soft huff of laughter from Bucky. Namor feels the tension ease; he didn't realise he cared about the unhappiness in Bucky's voice. Better a happy lover than an unhappy one.  
  
"Steve--he said to me, he said 'if you're happy with the Prince of Atlantis, far be it for me to stand between you', like we're... I dunno, like he thinks we're in love." Bucky laughs again, but this time without humour. "I told him again that it was just sex. He said he respected my choice of who I wanted to be, even if he didn't understand some of my choices--he meant you there, by the way--"  
  
"Yes, thank you, I figured as much by all the--" Namor gestures around his head, "punching." He sees the look Bucky shoots him, because he forgets Namor can see him clearly in the dark (forgets that Namor is something more than human) where he is only shadows to the boy, sees the guilt and the apology Bucky would never say and Namor would never accept.  
  
Bucky hesitates a moment. "Then he said that he didn't understand why I... why I didn't go to him instead. That I could've. Gone to him. Instead."  
  
Ah.  
  
There's a weighted silence that stretches on and on until Namor finally asks, "Then why are you here now?"  
  
There's another pause, then Bucky blurts, "Because I want to be."  
  
"James--"  
  
"I know, I know, this with us, it isn't about feelings, this is just... just physical, but Steve... It wouldn't be right. Not like this, not after everything. It's not the right time--"  
  
Namor clicks his tongue softly. "Tch. 'The right time'. We're in the middle of a war and who knows what might happen tomorrow--to you, to him, to any of us. We are none of us truly invulnerable, and if you wait there might never be a right time." He knows why he's saying this. He does. But he doesn't know why he feels a twinge of wistfulness because sentiment with this is beyond him, he cares not, truly.  
  
And yet.  
  
They're curled together in the dark under the blankets, face to face and tangled together comfortable and close. It's intimacy Bucky has forced by crawling into the bed with him but Namor... maybe he heals faster because Bucky is there, sharing his body-warmth, because Bucky is there when he shouldn't be, pressed up against him and that's why he feels better. It doesn't mean anything, but this stupid boy is going to force the issue.  _He shouldn't be there at all_.  
  
"Go," he says. Bucky says no.  
  
"You selfish, greedy boy, go," he says. Again, Bucky says no. He curls his hand around Namor's neck, fingers brushing lightly against the ridges behind Namor's ear and Namor suppresses a shudder with an angry growl.  
  
"No," he says, harsh now. "James, you cannot have us both.  _Go_." Bucky pushes forward and kisses him, rough and deep, and they're both breathing hard when he pulls back. Then, finally, he goes.  
  
As the door closes Namor rolls away, pulling the blankets tighter around him. He doesn't feel sadness or regret. He doesn't feel anything at all.


End file.
